


Hawkeye & Black Widow: Sight Unseen

by Fenix84



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Action/Adventure, Drama
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-28
Updated: 2013-10-11
Packaged: 2017-12-27 20:56:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/983520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fenix84/pseuds/Fenix84
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Agent Clint Barton is plagued by doubts about himself and the nature of his job. Assassin Natasha Romanoff is living a lie that cannot last. What will these two find in each other when they inevitably clash?</p>
<p>Story begins five years before Iron Man.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A View from Afar

**Author's Note:**

> I'll be posting a new chapter here on Archive of Our Own every few days. If you can't wait, then please look for the full story on Fanfiction.net!

_March 5, 2004_

Agent Clint Barton peered down from his perch on the upper level of the Berlin Central Station. He was standing on the outermost platform of the East-West tracks. There he had an excellent field of view with which to work with. Beneath him was the vast, crowded shopping level. The North-South tracks were located in the subway even further down below.

Clint leaned against the platform's railing in a casual manner, to give the appearance that he was merely relaxing. He didn't turn his head or body very much, but his eyes were rapidly shifting back and forth.

The station was a sea of information, composed of parts both orderly and chaotic. Thousands of people entered and departed in an unending cycle. Though everyone did their own things at their own pace, general, easily recognizable patterns still emerged. Seeing the big picture had always come naturally to Clint.

But this wasn't another simple observation mission, where he would only be tasked with calling out the movements of crowds and enemy troops. Clint was instead searching for a specific man, by the name of Dr. Albrecht Engel. The photographs that he had been provided with showed Dr. Engel as a frail, sixty year-old man with glasses. He had small eyes and a wide face, on which he kept a bushy brown goatee to compensate for his balding head.

To find Dr. Engel among the thousands of people streaming through the station, Clint would have to focus his mind and make use of his sharp vision. But focusing too much on any one thing at a time could cloud his mind, keeping him from seeing everything else around him. What people didn't see was often what was most important.

"See anything, Barton?" Agent Maria Hill asked. The two of them were connected through tiny communicators hidden inside their ears. She was the lead on this mission, despite being far younger than he was. Clint didn't like her strict, hands-on approach to leadership, but there was no escaping it there. At the moment, they were the only SHIELD agents in the entire station.

They were working shorthanded, looking for a secretive man who had only given them a time and place at which to meet him. Dr. Engel had been too scared to even call them with that information using his own phone. Clint couldn't blame the man for acting like that though, after stumbling onto evidence of his employer's shady dealings with terrorists. Engel had worked for one of the biggest European technology firms. Nobody who operated on that scale would engage in international crime without enough thugs and mercenaries to protect their business with.

Clint continued to search the train station until he finally settled on a man matching Dr. Engel's appearance. "Target in sight," he said. "He looks scared."

"Where is he?" Agent Hill asked.

"Just entered the north side of the mall." Engel was doing everything wrong, turning his head from side-to-side to cast suspicious glances as he walked with a briefcase clutched to his chest. _Great, just what we need_ , Clint thought.

It was up to SHIELD to get this man out alive, with all of the evidence that he carried. A team led by Agent Phil Coulson was due to arrive in the subway, riding in on the southbound train that would take Engel down to their safe house in Leipzig. But according to the schedule, they were still several minutes away. If anything were to happen, there would be no immediate back up.

"That's your area," Hill said. "Make contact and provide escort. We need to extract him ASAP."

"Not yet," Clint replied. "I see better from afar." He heard Hill's frustrated sigh through his earpiece, but he chose to ignore it. He stayed put instead, sweeping his eyes over the shopping area in search for threats.

"Fine," Hill said. "I'll go." Her icy tone might have shaken a less hardened agent. Though she was young, Maria Hill was as tough as they came.

She had enlisted in the Marines straight out of high school, spending five years with them before her recruitment by SHIELD. Just four months ago, she had led several SHIELD assault teams on a daring raid against a Ten Rings training camp in Southeast Asia. It was a brutally efficient, military style attack, closely coordinated with strike fighters launched from the Helicarrier itself.

The numbers told the story at the end of that battle: Eighty-three terrorists killed in action, along with a dozen leaders captured. Among the prizes that day was the regional chief of operations, whose presence had been uncovered earlier by Agent Hill's own hard work. The Ten Rings' activities in that area collapsed as quickly as her star rose in SHIELD.

Hill's accomplishments had caught the eyes of the World Security Council, allowing her to climb up the ranks well beyond what her years alone would have allowed. It was for that reason that she was in command of this current operation, even though Clint had more than a decade of experience on her.

"Wait," Clint said as something caught his eye. "Looks like you have a secret admirer."

"Who? Where?"

"Guy in the green jacket. Behind you, thirty feet back." Whoever that man was, he had probably not come alone. Clint kept looking, knowing that he would find even more.

"Damn," Hill said. The tension was apparent in her voice. "Where's the target headed?"

"He's moving south toward the subway. Wait, three guys are moving in on him. No, five. They see him."

"Move, Barton!" Hill ordered.

Though there was no more time for passive observation, Clint was able to keep looking down as he rushed toward the stairs. Two of the hostiles were still quite a distance away. But the other three were perilously close to Dr. Engel, just seconds from catching him in a pincer. The one on Engel's left had a syringe in his hand.

"Hill to Coulson," Maria said. "How much longer till you get here?

"Still three minutes away." Coulson said. "Hold on until we arrive."

"Can't hold on anymore," Hill replied. "Things just got hot."

Clint ran down the stairs two or three steps at a time. He was lucky that they led to the same place where everyone else was converging. Having neared the bottom of the stairs, he leaped and tackled the man with the syringe.

The two of them rolled on the floor and separated. Clint got up in time to see the man lunge forward in an attempt to inject him. He sidestepped his attacker, who immediately jabbed at him again. That second attempt came within a half-inch of his face, stopping only because the attacker's arm was too short to reach any further.

_Lucky you_ , Clint thought as he kicked the man in the stomach. The man bent over and exposed his face. Clint gave him a hard left hook that spun him around. He grabbed his dazed opponent and used one hand to guide the man's needle into his own leg. His opponent opened his mouth and gagged, shaking for several seconds before going limp. Whatever was in that syringe, it wasn't nice.

"No!" Dr. Engel cried. "No! Get off of me!"

Turning around, Clint saw Engel being seized by the other two men. The first one held the doctor's arms, while the second one pulled out a switchblade. Clint had a Glock with fifteen rounds holstered under his jacket, but he couldn't use it. Not without creating a mass panic and calling a SWAT team down on himself. He ran to grab the knife-wielding thug and pull him away from Dr. Engel.

The man swung at Clint instead. Clint jumped back, seeing the knife graze his chest and slice his shirt open. _Didn't feel a thing_ , he thought with a sense of relief, even though he knew that pain didn't always come right away. He didn't have time to check for sure before the man tried to stab him in the side.

Clint smashed his left arm into the man's weapon hand to block the attack. From there his hand flowed toward his opponent's wrist. He twisted it as he hammered the middle of the arm with his right. The man screamed and dropped his knife. A quick back fist strike silenced him.

A fist suddenly pounded against the back of Clint's skull, sending him to the floor. Two strong arms wrapped around him before he could fully get up. Clint drove his elbow backward in an attempt to relieve the pressure. The first strike didn't do it, but the second one did. Free to move again, Clint grabbed opponent's loosened arm and took him down with a vicious judo throw.

"Where are you, Hill?" he asked as he spun around to see his surroundings. Two cops were on their way, but so were three more hostiles. Clint didn't want to stick around for any of them.

"I got my hands full," Hill answered. "Go on without me!"

Clint turned to Dr. Engel, who was crawling on his hands and knees as he frantically searched for something. "What are you doing?"

"My thumb drive! I dropped it!"

Clint looked in the direction that Engel was crawling in. His eyes zeroed in on a small object on the floor, among the crowd that had stopped to watch the brawl. "I got this," he said as he dove toward the spectators. He snatched up the thumb drive as startled civilians stumbled all around him. "Alright," he said as he stuffed the thumb drive into his pocket. "Down the stairs, Doc!"

"Yes, yes," Dr. Engel said as he nervously nodded his head. The two of them made their way down into the crowded subway, which made the shopping level look orderly in comparison. There, people walking through the platforms collided into passengers departing from the newly arrived trains.

_Got to get through_ , Clint thought. He hated being in the middle of everything. He couldn't see with clarity there, not without the distance that he needed to think and breathe. It was a struggle just to stay with Dr. Engel, as person after person intruded across his path. One of those people swung a fist, and then another. _Where did he come from?_ Clint thought as he reeled back from the blows.

He placed both hands on his head and raised his elbows as he continued to take more hits. Twisting around in that guarded position, he flowed from defense straight into counterattack. Several elbow strikes set his opponent up as he closed the gap between them. Clint grabbed his enemy and powered forward to send him down onto the track below. The man landed hard on his back and didn't get up.

Clint turned around, thankful to see Dr. Engel. The poor guy was standing there confused, looking like he was about to freak out. "The overpass!" Clint yelled as he pointed to it. "Get to the other side! Now!" He looked behind and saw one of the same men from before trying to push his way through the subway. The crowd would slow him down enough. Clint turned back to Dr. Engel and followed him up the overpass.

"Barton to Coulson," he said. "You guys here yet?!"

"The train's coming to a stop," Coulson answered. "Just give us the doctor and we'll be good to go."

"On our way," Clint said. He went down the overpass and toward the next platform, where he saw the train's arrival. A mass of people had already gathered near the edge of the platform, ready to fill the train before anyone had even gotten off. The train doors opened, and the situation became as disorderly as he had predicted.

"Come on," he said as he grabbed Dr. Engel and pulled him along to pick up the pace. They tried to push their way through, but they didn't get any special treatment from the crowd. "Coming through! Move aside!" Someone suddenly grabbed Clint's arm and pulled him back. "Get on the train!" Clint yelled as he struggled with his latest attacker.

"Okay…thank you!" Dr. Engel said.

Clint pushed his opponent off to give himself time to catch his breath. That only gave the man some time to whip out a metal baton. The thug charged at him, swinging wildly.

It was impossible to dodge every blow. Clint instinctively raised an arm to block, for what little good it would do. The steel rod slammed against his arm, which went numb in an instant. "Ah!" he yelled as he fell to the ground. His enemy gave him no chance to recover before clubbing him several times on the back. Clint twisted on the floor in pain, but he managed to trip the other man with his legs.

His opponent climbed right back on top of him. Clint had been trained in ground fighting. He knew of a half dozen ways to get out of this position…if only the man wasn't so damned big. All Clint could do was put his hands up, trying his best to survive as the blows kept raining down.

"Excuse me," he heard someone say in a loud but remarkably calm voice. Both Clint and his attacker stopped and turned to the side, where they saw Agent Coulson standing in front of an entire team of policemen. "But assaulting someone in front of the cops is _clearly_ against the law." The cops pulled Clint's attacker off, manhandling him as they pinned him down and slapped on a pair of cuffs.

Clint pushed himself up, squinting in pain as he hunched over a trash receptacle. There he groaned and gasped for most of the next minute. He had seen a lot of combat over his career, but it had been almost twenty years since he had been on the bottom like that during a street fight. Clint sensed someone very close by, watching him as he tried to recuperate. When he thought that he had finally gotten over the pain, he turned to see who it was.

She was a stunningly beautiful woman, standing not three feet away from him. Everything on her was black, from her beret, to her well-fitted skirt suit, to the leather bag in her hands. Clint didn't know how much her outfit had cost. He just knew that it was very stylish. The clothes flattered her, but the contrast of her fiery red hair stood out even more.

Hers was a striking, sophisticated beauty. Though she was young, she looked appealingly smart and mature. Sort of like how Agent Hill would look, if she wasn't such a hardass. A gorgeous woman was right there in front of his eyes, but Clint knew that he looked like a loser.

He turned to his handcuffed enemy and did what he could to rectify his image. "Not so tough without your stick!" he barked. He turned back to the woman and nodded in acknowledgement of her. She just rolled her eyes and walked away.

Only after that did Coulson come to stand at his side. Phil whistled sharply as they watched the girl board the train.

"You noticed too, huh?" Clint said in response.

"Saw every second," Coulson said, still sounding calm and upbeat. "Oh well, can't win 'em all." The two of them stood quietly as the train closed its doors and departed.

"Why'd you get off the train?" Clint asked.

"I'm your handler. I need to make sure you're properly handled."

Clint just nodded, too tired to say much more. He slid his hands into his pockets, where he felt Dr. Engel's thumb drive. "Aw crap," he said as he pulled it out.

"That's fine," Coulson said. He casually took the thumb drive and slipped it down one of his own pockets. "You did well, Barton. The police can take care of these guys for now. Let's just get you and Agent Hill back to the apartment."

* * *

Natasha Romanoff adjusted the strap on her purse as she entered the front of the quiet car. The target was sitting on the other side of the car, surrounded by four agents. She could tell what they were, even though they were all in plain clothes. One of them was clearly watching her, even while he pretended to read a magazine.

_Amateur_ , she thought as she walked past several passengers to take a seat in the middle of the car. The agent was young and green. With the likes of him providing lookout, her cover remained safely intact.

Most of the other passengers whom she had passed were tired and elderly people, already asleep not five minutes after boarding the train. There was a man watching a movie on his laptop, and a teenage girl with an iPod. Both had headphones on and seemed completely unaware of their surroundings. No one from that side of the car was going to lay a hand on her from the back.

She sat in her seat for several minutes, letting things settle down to avoid suspicion. Waiting was something that she had to do, but didn't want to. She was anxious to just get things done already.

The performance enhancers that she had taken two days before were still in effect. The drugs honed her body, but far more important was the mental edge that they gave her. They greatly increased her capacity for information, allowing her handlers to quickly teach her everything about her missions and her targets.

Their wealth of information helped to focus her mind, instilling her with a sense of purpose. She knew Dr. Albrecht Engel. She hated him. His face was in her mind, during her dreams as well as all waking hours. She would not stop thinking about him until he was dead.

There was no getting closer to someone than she had to him. She knew his every record, his every trait. His every deed. Every immoral, two-faced act of his had been brought forth and held up before her eyes. She saw him up close, inside and out, and it sickened her.

He was a man who had profited from entire decades of war. A coward who had betrayed his employer to Western agencies in order to save his own skin. He would probably go on to work for them, developing weapons to promote their decadent, imperialist agendas.

Now, Natasha was as physically close to Dr. Engel as she had felt in her mind for days. He was every bit as disgusting to her in person. But he was also very vulnerable. Natasha reached into her purse, digging through her cosmetics and accessories for the deadly content that they concealed. She slowly pulled her hand out, removing a pocket-sized pistol from the bag. There was no reaction from the agents in the back. _They don't suspect a thing_ , Natasha thought. It was all too easy for her.

_**To be continued in Chapter 2: See No Evil** _


	2. See No Evil

_March 6, 2004_

Clint sighed as he slowly turned his head to the left. He could only look out his window for so long.

He saw Agent Hill across the narrow cabin of their aircraft, sitting in another window seat. Her hands were folded, and she had a forlorn look in her eyes as she kept staring at the floor between her legs. Maria looked just like she had an hour ago, when Clint had last laid eyes on her. He almost wanted to go over there and console her. Almost.

Except for the pilot himself, no one on the plane had spoken since takeoff. None of the agents there wanted to argue or cast blame for the failure in Germany. There would be plenty of time for that later on, aboard the Helicarrier.

The C-2A Greyhound that they were flying on was not a large plane, but it had more than enough seats for the entire team. All surviving members of the team, that was. There were four more empty seats on the way back than there were on the flight that had first went out. The agents had all spread throughout the cabin, with some taking entire rows for themselves. Clint understood why. For people like them, pain was easier to bear alone.

_Damn plane_ , he thought. The C-2 was a turboprop design that had been built decades ago. SHIELD was only using the old birds because they were available; the Helicarrier's air wing had been an afterthought to the ship itself. With a cruising speed below three-hundred miles per hour, trips to and from the Helicarrier were often quite long.

Clint couldn't wait for the procurement of those new Quinjets that everyone was talking about, which would fly several times faster. At least then, trips like the one that he was on would go by more quickly. They would still be painful, but they wouldn't be so long.

* * *

"A man _died_ yesterday," Director Nick Fury said as he entered the conference room. Fury took his seat at the table, where he took a moment to observe everyone else. "A man who was under _our_ protection. Not to mention four of our agents. Now does anyone wanna explain this one to me?" None of the ten people there, not Clint, Hill, nor Coulson, wanted to be the first to speak up. "Coulson. Give me something."

"Uh huh..." Phil said, before he looked down and quickly opened his laptop. Even he seemed shaken by what had happened. Coulson typed several commands, which activated the holographic projector mounted in the middle of the conference table. Security videos from different parts of the train station appeared on several split screens.

"These videos came in just after we returned," Coulson said as he continued typing. "Our source inside the Berlin police sent them here." The videos sped up, quickly progressing through time until just a few minutes before the shooting had happened.

"A witness on the train described the shooter as a young red-haired woman wearing a beret," Coulson said. "This might be her." Coulson stopped the video and zoomed in on someone walking among the crowds. She had been smart enough to look away from the security camera as she passed by, to keep her face from being recorded. However, her clothes and her hair were unmistakable.

Clint's eyes widened as he realized what had happened. "No way."

"You have something to say, Agent Barton?" Fury asked.

"She just..." Clint paused as he came to terms with what he was seeing. "She just looks like this pretty girl I stood next to yesterday."

"I'm afraid so," Coulson said. He nodded as he looked Clint in the eyes and frowned.

"Had no idea," Clint said.

"Wait," Agent Hill said as she raised her voice. "You're telling me that you let her through to kill five people because she was _pretty_? Great observation, _Hawkeye_."

Clint tightened his fist underneath the table. He was livid. It amazed him that he had even thought of her as human during their flight back. "I don't see everything, okay?"

"No," Hill said. "You just fail to see what's inside, that's all."

"I can see inside you pretty well right now," Clint replied. _Blaming me to cover your ass_ , he thought. He was doing everything he could not to raise his own voice and start shouting.

"Why you-"

"That's enough, Agent Hill," Director Fury said.

Hill opened her mouth as if to say something, before quickly closing it again. "Yes sir," she said with an affirmative nod.

"To be fair to Agent Barton," Coulson said, "she got past me as well." Coulson sounded like his usual calm self again. He had always been good at defusing situations. "Barton did save one of Dr. Engel's thumb drives. Our analysts are going through it right now. Looks like we still might have enough to shut down KonTech Systems."

"Good," Fury said as he took a brief look at Clint. "The Middle East could use few less guns."

"Some forensics came back on our assassin as well," Coulson said. "Her bullets were 0.38 caliber, likely fired from a Walther PPK."

"Nice gun for the job," Clint said. "It's small. Concealable."

"Mm hmm," Coulson said. "The bullets were hollow points as well, for greater tissue damage. She gave Engel two in the chest, and one in the head."

Fury looked down and sighed. "How did our agents die?"

"She shot Agent Davis twice, in the head and neck," Coulson said before pausing. He seemed uncomfortable with the grim details.

"Go on," Fury said.

"Agent Reyes took two shots in the chest," Coulson said. "Looks like he stood up, though he didn't get far out of his seat. She probably ran out of bullets after shooting him. Blair had a broken neck, while Turner showed apparent blunt force trauma to the head. After that, she forced open the train doors and vanished."

"She took them out with her bare hands," Clint said. "We're dealing with a real pro."

Another agent suddenly entered the conference room. "Sir, there's been an incident at Culver University. It's the gamma radiation lab."

" _What_ did you say?" Fury asked. His mouth hung open after that question. The agent walked to his side and whispered into his ear. Clint saw the director's eyes widen as he listened. "Just great," Fury said as he got up in a huff.

"What is it, sir?" Clint asked.

"This world of ours just got even stranger," Fury said. "I've got new priorities right now." He turned and pointed at Coulson. "Take care of this, Agent Coulson."

"Will do, Boss," Coulson said.

Clint knew that they had just been shafted. It would be up to Coulson, Hill, and himself to figure things out themselves. He didn't like the way that his day was turning out, at all.

* * *

Clint opened the door to his private quarters and went straight for his bed, where he collapsed. The mattress wasn't very good, but it was softer than anything he had been on over the last two days. That hours-long meeting with Coulson and Hill had just about kicked his ass. It had been no way to recover from his ass kicking in the subway just a day before.

Staring up at the ceiling, he waited for sleep to come. It didn't though. _I've been working too hard_ , he thought. _Schedule's all screwed up_. He had just come up with that as an excuse. He knew the real reason why he couldn't sleep.

_He's dead_ , Clint thought as he remembered the man whom he had injected with the poison syringe. The toxicology results would take a while to come in, for all that they mattered. The result would still be the same regardless of what Clint had put in him.

Of course, that man wouldn't be the last. Clint's entire day had been spent talking about that beautiful redhead, who stood a very good chance of becoming a target for future elimination.

_How many will that be, Clint?_ There was a time when he could remember every face and name. That had been many years ago. He began to lose track after moving from targeted killings into full-fledged combat missions. Killing was something that he was very good at. The more he killed, the more SHIELD wanted him to continue. As they had said, it was in everyone's interest for him to play to his strengths.

Names went through his head, but so did the bodies of the many people he had taken out after no more than a moment's glance. Clint didn't know which kills were worse. Was it more wrong to kill an actual person with a life story? Or was it a bigger sin to pull the trigger on someone whom he couldn't even bother to know anything about? No, the worst one was his first. The one that had sent him into SHIELD's hands, leading to all of the rest.

Clint needed something else to get his mind off the subject. He sat up and looked into the small mirror standing alone on top of his drawer. He remembered hearing somewhere that mirrors showed the truth of people. How they were supposedly a window into the soul or something.

_Don't be silly_ , he told himself. All he saw was one person sitting on a bed, in a bare room with sterile gray walls. The room was exactly as it was when SHIELD had assigned it to him more than a year ago. He had brought nothing of his own to change it.

* * *

_July 4, 2004_

"Still have Coke?" the bartender asked. The man spoke with a thick Turkish accent, but his friendliness still shined through.

_At least he knows how to smile_ , Natasha thought as she looked up from her laptop. She had wondered whether she would take any flak for not ordering a real drink. Unlike the French lady who had served her during her last mission, this bartender knew how to treat his customers. Or perhaps he was acting like that because of her looks. Men were so predictable.

"Yup," she replied, before raising her glass for him to see. "Still working on it." She playfully rattled the ice cubes inside, making sure to look him in the eye and smile as she did so. She had to stay in character no matter whom she dealt. The act would not work unless she fully committed herself to it.

"Good, good," the bartender said, before moving on to another customer.

Natasha took a sip and looked out the window. The Turkish capital of Ankara fascinated her. It wasn't the most glamorous city that she had ever been to, but it still stood out for its striking contradictions. It was a city of embassies, fine dining, and luxurious hotels, as well as Roman ruins and centuries-old mosques. The new Kocatepe Mosque had been particularly impressive to her, with its massive domed roof and towering spires. In that city, the past and the present existed as one.

Ankara was located in the heart of Turkey, which itself was a nation caught between two continents. Turkey was the gateway to the East. It was influential in the surrounding region, and was therefore a place where Western governments tried to build their own influence.

Half a mile away stood the American Embassy. Though embassies officially existed for diplomatic purposes, the open secret was that they were hot spots for intrigue and espionage. That was only natural for protected outposts conveniently located in faraway lands. The embassies' staff shared their space with spies. Host countries, even friendly ones, tolerated them with a wary eye. Interested third parties saw them as targets to be exploited. Russia's Department X, for which Natasha worked, was one such interested party.

The US Embassy actually wasn't a bad place to work at all, even as a temporary, lowly paid assistant named Nancy Ryan. Getting in had required Natasha to provide extensively forged documents and phony references, which all explained her life story as the daughter of American expatriates. Good thing that those had all been carefully prepared years ago.

Natasha was thankful that they had worked, because this mission was so different from everything that she had done recently. She had been free to plan and execute it according to her own judgment. The feeling of independence was scary, but exhilarating. She wanted so badly to prove herself to Uncle Ivan and Dr. Sergeyev. For once, they had not drilled their own plans into her mind in advance. If it had been possible, they would have.

The only reason that they hadn't was because of the gradual, open-ended nature of the mission. It wasn't a simple hit; Natasha needed to work inside the Embassy for entire weeks, observing people before any action could be taken. No single dosage of their performance enhancers could come close to lasting that long.

Those drugs were a big help to her, but she didn't like them. Not when they wore off each time, leaving her exhausted but able to think clearly again without the single-minded determination that they enforced. She didn't like the feeling that she was being watched and ordered forward every step of the way. She didn't like the feelings of weakness and doubt that crept into her whenever she was finally alone.

Natasha's eyes drifted back to her laptop again. She had opened several internet browser windows while waiting for her target to arrive. Something compelled her to search for information.

On the first window was a bio for Dr. Albrecht Engel. Natasha remembered all that she had been told about him. She knew how dirty his hands had been, and how he had deserved to die. Uncle Ivan had said so, and she trusted him on that. She trusted that Engel's death would serve the greater good of Mother Russia. What bothered Natasha was that she could no longer hate the man as much as she once had, before putting a bullet in his head.

The rest of the windows were devoted to other jobs that she had done. There was one about Aliya Drakov, whom Natasha had strangled last year inside a Georgian hotel room. Aliya's death had driven her equally traitorous father out of hiding, leading to his demise as well. Natasha remembered the praise that had been heaped upon her for that accomplishment. She didn't quite remember the details of what Aliya had been charged with.

_Get a grip_ , Natasha thought as she tried to suppress her feelings of doubt. _Stop being a child_. She was on a great assignment, free to exercise the talents that she had so painstakingly developed. She loved undercover work, which allowed her to become somebody else and escape her own confined life for just a little while.

This time, she also had a chance to show Uncle Ivan that she was no longer the frightened toddler whom he had rescued from that apartment fire all those years ago. She wanted him to know that she was in fact a grown woman, fully capable of deciding things on her own. And yet she was risking all of that because of her vague, stupid feelings.

Natasha closed her laptop. She had just heard the click when her target arrived and plopped himself down on the right side of the bar, several seats away.

The target's name was Jack Palmer. He had been born in Des Moines, Iowa to a middle class family on May 27, 1966. Palmer was an All-State basketball player in high school, but he also earned his way into Harvard on an academic scholarship. The man earned degrees in political science, international development, and Middle Eastern studies.

Palmer had turned away well-paying job offers in the private sector to work for the CIA instead. He had married and he had divorced, twice. Assigned to Ankara seven months ago, he was officially serving as the US Embassy's cultural attaché. In truth, he was there to coordinate with American agents, guiding their infiltration into the Middle East and the former Soviet Republics.

The bartender's face lit up. "Jack! My number one customer!" He laughed as he made his way over to Palmer's side of the bar.

"You know what I like, Omer," Palmer said. His head was tilted and resting on his left hand. He had not bothered to look up before ordering.

"Of course," Omer replied. He giggled as he poured a shot of vodka.

Palmer downed the shot not two seconds after it had been laid in front of him. He squinted and contorted his face as the alcohol burned its way down his chest.

"Another?" Omer asked as he lifted his open bottle again.

"Later," Palmer said. He looked off to the left and shifted in his seat as he waved the bartender off.

Natasha was completely ready from him. She had been watching him out of the corner of her eye, while facing her laptop monitor. As Palmer turned in her direction, she had gently looked his way so that their eyes would meet. Counting every moment in the Embassy, this was the seventh time that they made eye contact. It would be the first time that she would smile at him.

"Hey," Palmer said as he came over to take the seat next to her. "Never saw you here before." He seemed happier already.

"Well," Natasha said. She leaned a bit closer to him before finishing her sentence. "There's a first time for everything."

"It's work, right?" Palmer asked with a smile on his face. "They drove you to drink."

"I don't know about that," Natasha said as she picked up her glass of Coke.

Palmer pressed on. "I mean, how many hours did you put in today?"

"Just four," Natasha said in a teasing manner.

"Yeah? Well I did fourteen. They had me waking up at Five AM to handle some 'urgent business' bullcrap." Palmer looked down and sighed. "You know, we may be Turkey, but the Embassy's supposed to be American territory. Least they could've done was give us the Fourth of July off."

"Jerks," Natasha said. She smiled before taking a sip.

"Yeah," Palmer replied. "We work for a bunch of assholes."

Natasha felt his leg brush against hers. "Please tell me you've got some rum mixed into that," he said as he pointed at her glass. His abrupt change in subject was very telling. He was doing all of the work for her.

"Sorry to disappoint you," Natasha said, feigning embarrassment. "I thought about celebrating today with a drink, but I kind of chickened out. This would've been my first time."

"Oh wow, you've gotta be kidding me," Palmer said. "You must be old enough to drink. How old are you?"

"Twenty-three," Natasha said.

"Well like you said, there's a first time for everything." He briefly looked off to the side as a salacious grin appeared on his face. "I like vodka. Think you can handle vodka?"

Natasha held back the urge to laugh.

* * *

"Okay, what do you have in here," Natasha said as she opened Palmer's laptop. She was sitting on the bed in his hotel room. The disgruntled CIA agent was lying there next to her, breathing heavily with his eyes closed.

Getting to this point had been easier than Natasha had anticipated. Jack wasn't a bad-looking man; she wouldn't have minded spending the night with him if that was what the mission required. But the two of them didn't get that far. Natasha had plied him with liquor from the room's mini-bar. She never would have guessed that he'd drink so readily, all while mourning his failed second marriage.

Getting him drunk had been her goal though. This mission was different than usual. She was supposed to incapacitate Palmer, allowing her to go through his computer in peace. After copying the necessary files, she would then be able to slip away into the night without any suspicion. The best spy work left the victims without the slightest idea that they had been spied on.

Natasha typed away, trying passwords that she had dug up from Palmer's various online accounts. One of them worked. His security was terrible, but typical.

The computer's desktop was a jumbled mass of icons. The documents were a mess too, with seemingly endless levels of nested subfolders. It wouldn't have been half as bad though, if the folders and files had names that were more descriptive. Natasha took her time, going through each one.

"Don't leave me," Palmer slurred from under the covers of the bed. "My wife left me."

"Shh." Natasha reached for the half-empty bottle lying next to her. It was all that she had left. She opened it and stuck the small bottle into Palmer's mouth, feeding him like a baby. He drank for several seconds, before passing out again. The last of the liquor splashed against his cheek before flowing into his pillow.

Natasha went back to work. She found a listing of foreign agents and wanted criminals. It wasn't exactly what she was looking for. Still, she felt as if she were getting close. She continued on to the other folders in the group.

In an inconspicuously labeled subfolder, she found a roster of American agents and analysts working in the region. But these were their real names, and not all of them were working undercover. What she did notice was that every person that the CIA tracked, friend or foe, had been given a unique but similarly formatted serial number. Finding the undercover agents was a matter of matching the agency roster to its list of enemies.

_This is it_ , Natasha thought as she smiled. She plugged her thumb drive into the laptop and briefly clenched her hands before returning them to the keyboard. For the first time in recent memory, she was actually giddy and excited about her work in a good way.

The telephone suddenly rang. Natasha turned and watched it ring, hoping that it was just a wrong message. No such luck.

"Jack, you there?" someone said as he left a message. "It's Frank. We need to talk right now. Come on Jack, I know you're there."

_Damn it_ , Natasha thought. Her heartbeat picked up as she quickly moved to copy both databases into her thumb drive. The files were huge. Transferring all of their data would take several minutes, at least.

"You're killing me, Jack, you know that?" Frank said. "I'm coming up. See ya soon."

"Hurry up," Natasha whispered as she watched the copying process. She hated how slow it was. She hated the computer's useless animated display. It showed fictional papers endlessly transferring between folders, while actual numbers on its progress only appeared intermittently. The minutes passed by. All Natasha could do was watch.

"96 percent complete," the computer displayed.

_Almost there_ , Natasha thought. She started to feel better. In another minute, she would be able to pack up and leave. Frank would never see her there...

He suddenly knocked on the door. "Hey, open up."

Natasha jumped to her feet. Her eyes were fixed on the laptop even as she moved to grab her things. _Forty-five seconds. Damn._ Natasha picked up her purse and her jacket before running into the closet.

"You got the spare key, Conner?" Frank asked.

"Right here, Boss."

Natasha put down the laptop and opened her purse. She quickly dug through its contents, dropping each item on the floor as she made her way to the bottom. There she found her trusty PPK, as well as a suppressor. With any luck, she wouldn't have to use it. But she knew that her luck that night had changed for the worse.

The door swung open and slammed against the wall. Natasha heard the two agents enter in a hurry, as if they were clearing the room. They knew that something was wrong.

Natasha quickly screwed the suppressor onto the barrel of her pistol. This wasn't the movies. Her suppressor wouldn't completely silence the gun, but it would muffle it and alter the sound of her shots. Enough so that people in the adjacent rooms wouldn't immediately know that a weapon had been fired. Natasha still held out the faintest hope that it would not come to that.

"What the hell," Frank said. Natasha heard him walking over to the bed. She could faintly make out his feet through the slits of the closet door, which was composed of downward-slanting wooden strips.

"God, I can smell the booze on him," Conner said. "He have a girl in here?"

"Yeah," Frank said as he picked something up from the floor.

Natasha almost gasped as she looked down at her bare feet. She knew that she had forgotten something in her haste.

"Huh," Conner said. "Someone's losing his clearance."

"Go check the closet," Frank said.

Conner moved to do as he was told. His footsteps were those of a large man. Natasha gripped her pistol tightly as she prepared herself for what would come next.

The door swung open in front of her. The first thing that Natasha saw wasn't Conner, but the gun that he pointed at her. Her left arm swung out on instinct, knocking it aside. Natasha didn't shoot him right away. She kicked him away instead, before leaping out of the closet.

Good thing that she had. Frank had his gun drawn as well, and was turning to engage her. If she had shot Conner right away, he might have fallen forward and trapped her inside the closet.

Natasha fired before she had even stopped rolling. Despite the suppressor, each shot seemed loud and clear in her ears. Frank dropped his weapon as he shook from the gunshots, before falling to the floor. Natasha swung around and gave three more to Conner as well.

For some reason, she didn't put down the gun after he had fallen. Natasha watched as some of Conner's blood trickled down the wall. She noticed that she was gasping. "Bozhe moi," she said in Russian. _My God._

She shook her head in an attempt to clear it. _Such a baby_ , she thought to herself. What was wrong with her that night? Was she so weak that she couldn't go through with a kill without Uncle Ivan and his treatments to steel her will? Natasha put on her heels and went to the closet, where she slowly gathered her things. She tried, but she couldn't stop thinking about those gunshots.

"Download complete," Palmer's laptop displayed. Natasha unplugged her thumb drive from it. Just a few minutes ago, she would've been so happy to finish the job. Now though, there was no point in even leaving the laptop there. Not after all that had just happened.

Natasha checked her gun. She had one more round in it. Jack Palmer was still lying there, unconscious. He had not seen what she had done. A gunshot to the head might keep him from calling for help though, after waking up from his drunken slumber. It stood a chance of buying her some more time.

Or it might not. For all she knew, Frank and Conner could have been working on someone else's deadline. That was what she decided to go with.

No matter what, there was no way that Nancy Ryan would ever work in the Embassy again. She packed up her gun and left, allowing Palmer to have a night of peaceful sleep before he would have to wake up and face reality.

_**To be continued in Chapter 3: The Dollhouse** _


	3. The Dollhouse

_July 5, 2004_

Natasha sped her motorcycle through the dimly lit roads of Plzen's industrial district. She was in the old part of that Czech city, surrounded by evergreen trees and factories with towering smokestacks.

The area had had its share of troubles over the years. During the Cold War, it had been a major producer of goods for the nations of the Eastern Bloc. However, things changed after the collapse of Communism. Plzen's factories lost many of their customers, and were unable to compete with Western businesses. Some of the factories were forced to close. Even though conditions in the East had improved since then, Natasha still regretted the downfall.

That night though, her thoughts were turned inward. The outcome of her most recent mission still weighed heavily on her. But most of all, she was tired. The night was especially dark, with low clouds obscuring both the moon and the stars. That made it even harder for her to ride. It was late, and she wanted to get home and sleep in her own bed for a change.

She arrived at the gate outside of her walled off destination. There, she removed her helmet and made sure to look directly into the security camera that was pointing down at her. Natasha then reached to type in her access code on the keypad mounted on the post to her right.

The gate opened before her. She was finally home. The place had been an arms factory before it had been forced out of business during the turmoil of the early nineties. Department X secretly purchased the building some years after that. It was the perfect place for Uncle Ivan to relocate the Department's "Red Room" academy. There, they were closer to the playing fields of Western Europe. They could take advantage of the European Union's lax border controls, which made it far easier to move between countries.

A pair of armed guards greeted her before allowing her through. Natasha drove up to the building and parked outside the main entrance. She was exhausted, but she knew that the night was not over yet even as she opened the door. Inside, she saw a dozen men standing there waiting for her. Uncle Ivan and Dr. Sergeyev stood at the head of the crowd.

"You told me you could do this," Uncle Ivan said. His voice came out low. She could feel the disappointment coming off of it. "You told me you were ready. I believed you."

"I'm sorry," Natasha replied. "I didn't know it would turn out like that." On her way back, she had thought about the agents whom she had killed. About having to admit to everyone that she wasn't ready to do everything on her own. She suddenly felt ashamed for being so self-centered, without even considering the feelings of the only father that she had ever known.

"You're sorry?" Ivan said. His voice had suddenly changed. It had taken on an edge, as if something was boiling out from him. "You're sorry?!" he screamed. "I defended you! I told everyone I trained you myself!" His tall muscular body was animated with rage. "Damn it! You embarrassed me!"

Natasha's mouth dropped open. She tried to say something, but she was too stunned to respond. Nothing had even prepared her for this outburst. She felt something heavy form in her chest.

"I worked hard to get you in there! I had to call in favors, you understand? And you throw it away! Just like that!"

"I, I got the laptop," Natasha said as she handed over Palmer's computer. Uncle Ivan stared her down as he snatched it out of her hands.

"Yes, but the Americans know that you took it," Dr. Sergeyev said. Ivan looked at him, as his anger appeared to build even more. Sergeyev's input had definitely irked him. "That information has lost more than half its value."

Ivan turned back to Natasha and continued. "You stupid girl! You're so stupid!"

He was humiliating her in front of everyone. Natasha felt moisture around her eyes, but she held it back. "I'm so sorry," she said. She noticed that she was shaking, and that her voice had not come out with the usual strength that she had always made an effort to display. Natasha suddenly dropped her head and looked away. She had not cried in years. If she were to start, she didn't want to be seen doing it.

"It's okay," Uncle Ivan said. His voice was suddenly soft again. He must have sensed that she was near her breaking point. Ivan walked up to her and wrapped his strong, bearlike arms around her body. "It's okay," he said again as he gently rocked her back and forth. He lowered his head toward hers. Natasha felt his bushy mustache as he kissed her on the forehead. "Don't you worry, my little Tsarina. Just listen to Uncle Ivan from now on."

* * *

_July 8, 2004_

"What's going on?" Clint asked as he saw several elite SHIELD agents rushing by.

"There's been a leak at the CIA," Agent Jimmy Woo said. "Director Fury's pissed."

Clint followed him and the others into the Helicarrier's main briefing room. Dozens of people were there. All of them sat waiting as Fury and Coulson prepared to speak. Clint noticed Agent Hill at the front of the room, glaring at him. She motioned for him to take the seat next to her.

"Hey," Clint whispered as he sat down.

Hill shook her head. "You really screwed up."

Clint didn't know what he had done recently that could have even gone wrong. He was about to respond when Fury started talking.

"As some of you may have heard," Fury said, "there's been a major security breach at the CIA." He paused to look around the room. "Last Sunday, two CIA agents were killed inside a hotel room in Ankara, Turkey. Another agent named Jack Palmer was found in that room, drunk. His classified laptop was stolen. That laptop happened to contain a list of undercover agents in Eastern Europe and the Middle East." Fury stopped and turned to Coulson.

Coulson cleared his throat before taking over. "There were no eyewitnesses to the murders. However, Palmer spent that night with a pretty redhead who worked with him at the nearby US Embassy. She disappeared on him. No one's seen her since." Coulson pointed a remote control to activate the big-screen monitor mounted on the wall. The woman's face appeared. "Recognize her, Agent Barton?"

_Oh no_ , Clint thought, as he sensed everyone's attention turning to him. "Unfortunately," he answered.

"The CIA was pretty angry with us for not sharing her description with them," Coulson said.

"The CIA ought to know that trust goes both ways," Fury said as he raised his voice. "Go on, Agent Coulson."

"This leak basically screwed up every ongoing operation east of Germany," Coulson said. "The silver lining was that it was quickly discovered. Most of agents were safely withdrawn. But five of them weren't so lucky. Four deep cover CIA agents, and one SHIELD agent, were killed yesterday."

"That's right," Fury said. "The CIA was secretly keeping tabs on _us_ as well. Show them the video."

"Sir..." Coulson said. "Is it really necessary?"

"Show them video."

"Okay." Coulson looked down and took a breath, before pressing another button on his remote. The monitor switched to a video of several masked terrorists dragging a bloody man across the floor.

"That's Agent Ramzi al-Shayah," Fury said. "One of us."

Clint watched as one of the masked men pointed a gun at Ramzi's head. The shot came before he could look away. The execution was all over in a moment, but the feeling of sickness that it brought about lingered on. "Why's this girl working for terrorists?" Clint asked. He wanted to talk about anything else that could get the disturbing scene out of his head.

"She's not," Coulson said. "Well at least not directly." He stopped the video and went through a menu of other files. "The thumb drive you got from Dr. Engel put us on the trail of several terrorists. As you know, we've been following their communications for a while now. Turns out several of them have been talking to this guy." A closeup of a middle-aged man with graying black hair and a mustache came up on the screen.

"That's Bezukhov," Hill said.

Clint looked at the young agent, surprised that she was aware of the name. Clearly, she was being included in meetings that he wasn't privy to.

"Right," Coulson said. "Ivan Petrovitch Bezukhov was an officer in the Red Army before moving on to Russian intelligence. He's been behind many of their most successful operations over the last two decades. There's been a lack of hard intel on him in recent years, but it's believed that he's currently based somewhere outside of Russia."

"Our friend Ivan does things his own way," Fury said. "He's been taking freelance jobs with various criminals and rogue nations for a while now. The Russians don't seem to care so long as he continues to give them quality intel."

"Well," Clint said. "I think it's time to start making them care."

* * *

_July 11, 2004_

Natasha felt her pillow against the back of her head as she saw curtains open in front of her. She was in a strange state of sleep. Even though she was aware that she was dreaming, her dream was so vivid that it was easy to become immersed in it. What she was seeing, feeling, and hearing was as good as real.

She stepped out into the lights, where she saw the cavernous auditorium of the world famous Bolshoi Theatre in Moscow. This was the biggest stage of them all, and thousands of people had come just to see her. They were all sitting there attentively, on the floor as well as in the galleries that lined the theatre's magnificent walls.

Classical music began to play, bringing a serene mood to the theatre. _Don't disappoint them_ , Natasha thought as she leaped forward to begin her performance. She landed on her toes, where she stayed. With her arms raised above her, she lightly tiptoed from one side of the stage to the other. Natasha felt herself genuinely smiling. The feeling came so rarely for her that it was almost strange.

She was at peace, doing what she loved to do. Or what she had always wanted to do, as a girl. She didn't remember ever performing as a ballerina, even though the moves came to her as if from memory. Natasha stopped as she reached the right side of the stage, where she crossed her legs and spread her arms before turning back the other way.

The music suddenly picked up as she launched herself into a series of leaps. She kept bending one leg back along with her arms and her head, gracefully demonstrating her flexibility as she flew through the air. The jumps were over after her fourth landing, but Natasha didn't come to a stop. Without pausing for a second, she began to pirouette. All she saw were spinning lights as she twirled on her toes.

A pair of arms caught her as she stopped turning. Natasha looked up and was startled by who she saw. "Alexei?" she asked in disbelief. He was the same dashing young agent whom she had trained with once before. One of only two boys who had ever come close to her heart. But that was a long time ago, and a lifetime away. "But how? I thought you were -"

"On a mission?" he asked, giving her a mischievous smile as he lifted her into the air. He carried her in his strong embrace, before swinging her gently back down onto her feet.

"Didn't know you were much of a dancer," Natasha said.

Alexei picked her up again and twirled around. But he was swinging harder now, and building momentum. He finally stopped as he slammed her down onto the stage.

"Ah!" Natasha cried as she bounced off of the unforgiving wood. She rolled over to look at him as she rubbed her back in pain.

"Didn't know you were much of a fighter," he teased.

Natasha cracked a smile. Ballet was nice, but it was the dream of a little girl. Fighting was what she lived for now. She snapped back up and ran forward to attack. Once again, she leaped into the air and spun. But this time it was no dance move. It was a tornado kick. Alexei was quick enough to duck under her outstretched leg. He wasn't quick enough to dodge the follow-up kick that she delivered upon landing.

"Ugh!" Alexei yelled as he stumbled back and clutched his stomach. He quickly recomposed himself and assumed a playful dance pose. "Shall we?" he asked as he stretched out his arm to invite her in once again.

Natasha looked him in the eye and raised her eyebrows in acknowledgment, before she assumed a martial arts stance instead. "It's your move."

Alexei came in with both fists flying. "Yah!" he shouted as he swung for a left hook. Natasha ducked, feeling his arm graze the hair on her head. He instantly reversed for a backhand with the same arm.

"That all you got?!" Natasha taunted as she raised both arms to block the blow.

"Almost," he said with a smirk.

Natasha suddenly felt his leg sweep up behind her own, tripping her. "Whoa!" she shouted as she hit the stage once more. She rolled to evade his kicks and stomps, before she flipped back up onto her feet. Alexei came in again, but she turned him back with a high kick to the chin. She lowered her leg and saw that he was still stumbling from the hit. She had been waiting for such an opening.

She rushed forward and she leaped, flaring her legs out as he turned back in her direction. Natasha wished that she could see the look on his face as he entered her leg scissors. With his head and neck caught in her iron grip, Natasha twisted him around and sent him to the floor.

Alexei crashed into a living room coffee table. The setting had suddenly changed, though Natasha didn't think much of it. She simply took a quick look around at her new surroundings. The walls were cream-colored, while the doors and woodwork around the fireplace were white. There was a set of light brown sofas in the room, with thick pillows resting on each one. The whole place looked rather cozy. Natasha didn't remember ever being in a place like this, but the room seemed strangely familiar.

The only thing that surprised her was the little red-haired girl sitting in the corner. The child couldn't have been more than three years old. She was happy to play with her own toys, seemingly unbothered by the fighting. Natasha didn't know who the girl was, but she felt an instant connection to her.

"That's good, Natasha," Alexei said as he pushed himself up. "Glad to see you haven't lost a step."

"Yeah?" she replied. "What about you?" The two of them went at it again, trading blows. Alexei finally grabbed her around the waist and pushed forward, pinning her against the wall. Not one to just give up, Natasha wrapped her legs around him and squeezed. She could hear him wheezing as he struggled to breathe.

Alexei held on though, reminding her that he had always been so much stronger than all of the other men that she knew. He turned and slammed her into another wall. Behind him, Natasha could hear the little girl giggling. Alexei was still struggling to break free, fighting Natasha every step of the way even as his body succumbed to her grip. Their faces drew close to one another's. Natasha wanted to kiss him. She did.

The door suddenly burst open. A black-clad assault team swarmed into the house with AK-74 assault rifles. Natasha watched in horror as one of the men slammed his rifle butt into the back of Alexei's head, knocking him out cold.

"Get away from him!" Natasha cried as several of the intruders pulled Alexei away. "Alexei! No!" The rest of the team descended on her with fists and rifle butts. She crumpled to the floor, after which they turned to stomps. Her odd but pleasant dream had transformed into a nightmare, one that she saw no escape from. It was the worst feeling in the world for Natasha, to be so powerless and at the mercy of others.

The stomping finally ceased, but Natasha's body was too broken for her to get up again. One of the men pointed his rifle barrel in her face as the others went to work on the house. They smashed the china cabinet, threw chairs, and flipped over tables. One of them began to douse the floor and walls with gasoline.

Alexei tried to crawl back to her even as one of the men pressed a rifle down against his back. "Don't do it!" Natasha screamed. "Please! Don't!" Her desperate pleas did nothing to sway her attackers. The rifle fired, instantly killing Alexei. His prone, motionless body continued to stare at her even as blood flowed out from its mouth.

Another man laughed as he lit a match and threw it, setting the house ablaze. The intruders left Natasha and headed for the door. One of them grabbed the little girl. The once happy child shrieked as she was carried away. Natasha lied on the floor, unable to do anything to save her. She reached out in a useless attempt to help. The child's fear overwhelmed her, shaking her to the core. Even as the flames encircled her, all she could think about was that poor helpless child...

"NOOOOO!" Natasha suddenly found herself sitting up in bed. Her vision was blurry from the tears that were gushing out of her eyes. Tears. She was crying. The realization made her feel even more pathetic. She hunched over and contorted her face in anguish. Her breath came out of her in frantic gasps. All she could do was sob.

"Natasha!" she heard Uncle Ivan say as he entered the room. Of all the rooms in the building, hers was the only one without a lock. She had been annoyed by that before. But at that moment, it didn't seem to matter. "What's going on?" Ivan asked as he sat down on the bed and took her into his embrace.

"They...they killed Alexei," Natasha said.

"Who killed Alexei?" Ivan asked.

"The men in the black suits. The people...who burned down the house."

"No, Natasha," Ivan replied. "You were just dreaming. Alexei died four years ago, don't you remember? He died in a plane crash."

Natasha grew still as her senses returned to her. Alexei _had_ died in a plane crash, just as Uncle Ivan had said. He had told her the same exact thing four years ago, right after it had happened.

"Shh," Ivan said as he turned and held her closer.

Natasha finally opened her eyes again. That was when she saw the dollhouse, standing on the drawer behind Ivan's shoulder. Delicately handmade, it was more of a decoration than a toy. It was the only decoration in her otherwise bare and functional room. Uncle Ivan had given it to her as a gift many years ago, not long after he had saved her from the apartment fire that had killed her parents.

"You were just dreaming," Ivan said. "None of it was real."

The living room of the dollhouse was instantly recognizable. It had a fireplace, cream-colored walls, and soft brown sofas covered with pillows. Just like the room that she had dreamed about. There were two dolls inside. Seated on one of the couches was a large man, with black hair and a mustache. On his lap was a happy, red-haired little girl.

None of it was real.

_**To be continued in Chapter 4: Command and Control** _


	4. Command and Control

_July 12, 2004_

Clint dropped his archery target in the corner of the Helicarrier's hangar. He had bought the thing on his way back from his last mission more than a week ago, but he hadn't gotten a chance to use it until now. The target was a black cube of foam about twenty inches wide, with white circles painted on each side. It looked like a big die, and it felt like a child's toy. It was the best that he was able to get.

He carried his compound bow with its side-mounted quiver of five arrows. This weapon, on the other hand, was top quality. The type of bow that would be used in professional competition. It had cost him half a paycheck, but Clint had been set on spending that much on himself for once.

Compounds had a "high tech" look that most laymen didn't associate with bows. Made of lightweight composites, they had a pulley at the end of each limb, with cables running in between. They could store more energy on the draw and launch arrows further than otherwise possible. The complex mechanics made the bows more sensitive and susceptible to damage, but that was just another price to pay for the performance that they offered.

He walked back as far as he could, before stopping in front of a Harrier jump jet. Clint turned around and looked at his target. It was about twenty-five yards away, not enough to test any top-tier archer. He hoped that it wouldn't test him, but it had been months since he had found the time to pick up a bow. SHIELD held regular handgun and rifle exercises aboard the Helicarrier, but it showed no such support for archery. _If you don't use it, you lose it_ , Clint feared.

The others had mocked him for his liking of bows and arrows. Bows were obsolete, they had said. Too short-ranged. Too slow and impractical. Clint did what he was told, but he didn't care for the attitude. He didn't like the way they were always trying to change him. An archer was who he was. At least, it was what he thought of himself as. There were times when he pondered just why he had gotten into archery in the first place.

It had been almost three decades since his parents had died in a terrible car accident caused by his own drunken father. With no other relatives who could care for them, Clint and his brother Barney were placed in foster care. It was hell. Nothing but troubled kids and "parents" who didn't give a damn. The two of them put up with that for a few years, before taking off on their own.

The Carson Carnival of Traveling Wonders just happened to be in town when they made that decision. The boys were taken by its grandeur and showmanship. They loved the idea of seeing the country, and they craved the adoration of the crowds. Adoration that they had never received from any of their parents. The carnies took them in without asking too many questions.

Clint helped with menial tasks while waiting for his chance to perform. Like other boys, he had grown up on tales of Captain America. Clint loved the idea of wearing a colorful costume, and being the center of attention. He wanted to be the guy that everyone else looked up to.

On occasion, he would dream of fighting alongside Cap himself. The two of them would be facing down evil, with impossible odds stacked against them. Cap would issue decisive orders. And though he would be filled with excitement and awe, Clint would give a levelheaded response. He'd say something like "My pleasure, Captain," right before getting to work.

He was still a growing boy though, so it would be years before he was ready to step out in front of the crowds. But that was always on his mind as he packed boxes and scooped manure. For a while, Clint wanted to take after the carnival's strongman. He thought about calling himself "Goliath," and he even had a gaudy costume planned out in his mind. With his bare chest and his bulging biceps, he'd make the ladies swoon with feats of strength.

Things didn't quite work out that way. Despite countless hours of lifting, Clint never developed such a physique. However, others at the carnival were willing to take him under their wings. There was the flamboyant Frenchman Jacques Duquesne, and the gruff, burly archer Buck Chisholm. "Swordsman" and "Trickshot," they called themselves respectively. The two men performed in purple costumes, dazzling the crowds with their skill in archaic weaponry.

Under their direction, Clint became "Hawkeye the Marksman." He had a similar costume but a much younger body. As Hawkeye, he combined the accuracy of Trickshot and the athleticism of the Swordsman. Things went well for years, even though Clint was occasionally worried by his mentors' gambling and drinking habits.

Everything changed one night in New Jersey. Drowning in debt, Duquesne had partnered with local gangsters on a scheme to rob the carnival. Still in costume after doing a show, Clint reluctantly tried to stop them. Duquesne offered Clint a cut of the money if he would just step aside, but Clint refused. One of the gangsters pulled a gun. Clint reacted, putting an arrow through his heart. Clint was frozen in horror at the sight of the dying man, unable to do anything as Duquesne attacked.

Duquesne beat him within an inch of his life. He would have gone all the way, had Chisholm and Barney not intervened. They saved Clint, but working at the carnival was over for all of them. Clint had gotten on the bad side of organized crime, in addition to a possible murder charge. The three of them had to go on the run. Barney became angry right after finding out that Clint had chosen this trouble over easy money. He got on a bus and left. Clint never saw his brother again.

Chisholm stayed with him though. They were Trickshot and Hawkeye. Partners. Together, the two of them became thieves, committing a series of robberies in full costume. At first, they stole out of revenge against the very gang that they were running from. Then, they stole just to eat. It was still a lot of fun though, and a great distraction from the utter mess that Clint's life had become. Reality eventually caught up with him after a job gone wrong. Chisholm angrily put an arrow in Clint's shoulder and left him for the cops.

And that was how he came into SHIELD's hands. A young agent named Phil Coulson visited him in jail, offering to wipe Clint's criminal record and give him a job. Working for SHIELD had been an easy choice at the time. Clint would not have accepted it so readily though, had he known about all that it would involve.

He finally stopped reminiscing as he pulled an arrow from his quiver and nocked it on his bowstring. Clint turned his body ninety degrees from his target. _Feet shoulder width apart_ , he thought. _Back foot slightly forward_. Proper form should have been instinct for someone such as himself, but he reminded himself of the basics just to make sure that he hadn't forgotten.

He drew his arrow back in one smooth continuous motion as he simultaneously pushed forward with his bow hand, making sure to keep his arms parallel to the floor. Clint brought his drawing hand back and anchored it against his cheek. The bowstring was touching the tip of his nose, just like it should be. _So far, so good_. He aligned his bow's sights on the middle circle of the target and exhaled. The only way to find out if he still had it was to shoot.

Clint released his arrow and watched it sail all the way to the target. _Bull's-eye_ , he thought. He repeated the process with each of his four remaining arrows, scoring perfect hits with each of them. _Haven't completely lost it_ , Clint thought. He didn't know if he still completely had it either. After all, the target was just a paltry twenty-five yards away. That was all the space he was going to get on that crowded and busy ship.

It would be an ongoing struggle to maintain his skills, while dealing with the many pressures and distractions of his job. He was an archer who had once dreamed of being a hero. SHIELD had turned him into a gunman and a killer. They had changed him, just like his parents, foster parents, Duquesne, and Chisholm had before them. Control, change, and loss. It was the story of his life. Clint no longer craved attention. Not after he realized what other people always did to him.

He was walking to retrieve his arrows when he heard someone behind him. "Having fun?" Agent Hill asked.

"I was," Clint said as he turned around.

"Remember Ahmad Hussaini?"

"The Jordanian businessman?" Clint asked. "The guy we've been trying to find for two months?"

"Yeah," Hill replied. "The guy who's been using his connections to supply terrorists back home."

"What about him?" Clint asked.

"We just located him at a vacation home in Southern France," Hill said. "He's meeting with a terrorist leader. This is our first big break since the intel on Engel's thumb drive dried up. We're moving in, Barton. I want you on the team."

"Why?" he asked. "Because of my surveillance skills? My excellent decision-making?"

"Of course not," Hill replied. "I need a shooter. You're the best trigger man we've got."

* * *

Natasha heard the horn of the freight train passing by outside her bedroom window. The sound was as loud and annoying as usual. It might have woken her up, had she been able to go back to sleep the night before.

_None of it was real_ , she told herself again. She was just dreaming, as Uncle Ivan had said. The words failed to reassure her though. It was frightening to think that she couldn't trust her own thoughts and feelings. Everything had been so sharp, so clear and detailed. If she had been imagining things, she had done a very good job of that.

Turning to the clock at her bedside, she saw that it was four fifty-nine AM. Natasha reached and turned off her alarm clock before it could sound off and flood her ears with more unnecessary noise. It was time to get ready for the long day ahead.

She washed up and got dressed in her usual efficient manner. By six fifteen, she was out in the hallways of the academy heading to her first training session. All of the twenty-seven girls there had a full course load, rotating from room to room throughout the day. Uncle Ivan's "little Tsarinas" weren't just spies. Each of them was to be molded into a perfect lady: beautiful, intelligent, and skillful enough to navigate through any social circle.

There was language training. Natasha had become fluent in English at a young age, learning it right alongside her native Russian. English had been such a priority that it was closer to being her first language than Russian was. Everyone at the Red Room conversed in English as a matter of policy. It was the language of Natasha's own thoughts, and she had mastered it to the extent that she was no longer required to train in it.

She was also fluent in French and Italian, and well on her way to finishing Latin. That archaic language was no longer in common use, but it was distinctive and could potentially impress the right people. Spanish and Chinese were also in her curriculum.

It wasn't enough to know a language though. The girls had to be skilled in their usage. A strong grasp of culture, connotations, and word play was required. They had to know how to achieve desired psychological effects. How to use words to project an image of themselves, beyond what could be conveyed by their appearances alone. How to carry a conversation, and seduce a man.

There were also technical skills to learn. Computers, security systems, tools, and weapons were all covered. The girls were taught how to break into any place, and if need be, fight their way out. Hands-on training was regularly provided for handguns, rifles, knives, and unarmed combat.

All of this grueling training was held under the hammer and sickle of the Soviet Union. Uncle Ivan had insisted on keeping the red flags, as a reminder of the glory days when Russia was still a global superpower. He didn't care for the fact that people back in their home country no longer flew the flags. The Red Room was a piece of old Soviet Russia on foreign soil. It was a home for people who no longer had any other home.

Though Ivan had raised her with the same beliefs, Natasha didn't feel as strongly about Russia as he did. From childhood, she had been immersed in American ways as part of her training. She was comfortable with American language and customs. She had watched American movies and television shows. Natasha loved American culture. She just knew enough to hate American politics.

Natasha worked her way into the evening, throwing herself into her training in an effort to forget her previous night. At six PM, she was in her final class for the day: Jiu-jitsu. She was wearing a martial arts gi and sitting around a padded mat with nine other girls. A male instructor stood in the middle of the mat, ready to supervise their sparring.

"You've been very good, Natasha," he said. "Show the other girls what you know." He motioned for her to get up. Natasha walked to the middle and waited for him to select her opponent. The instructor looked around before making his choice. "Come, Yelena."

Yelena Belova was a blonde girl several years younger than Natasha was, with cruel eyes and a scowl seemingly fixed on her face. She was pretty like every other girl at the Red Room, but her attitude was very uninviting. Despite that, Yelena had top scores in combat and technical skills. She tested even higher than Natasha had at the same age. Yelena had always made a point to bring that up whenever she had the chance.

She made eye contact with Natasha as she came near. Though Yelena didn't say a word, Natasha could tell that she relished the opportunity to prove herself. Natasha stood her ground and stared back. She was in no mood to take any insults from Yelena that day. "Fight!" the instructor shouted.

Natasha and Yelena circled around, testing each other with low kicks and jabs. Neither of them was too scared to commit. Instead, they were methodically looking for an opportunity to strike. Yelena leaned in for a punch. Natasha backpedaled, realizing in mid-step that she had opened herself to attack. Yelena pounced at her legs with almost superhuman speed. Natasha turned and used her momentum against her, throwing Yelena across the mat.

Yelena grunted and pounded the mat with her fist. She sprung right back up into an attack. Natasha dodged and blocked as Yelena swung away at her. She could feel the hatred behind the blows.

"Ugh!" Natasha yelled as she took a left hook that spun her around and sent her stumbling several steps away. She turned back and looked at her opponent while she rubbed her cheek. "Not bad, Yelena. If only you spent as much time working on your other skills. Or on your charm."

"You call yourself Russian?" Yelena said. "You make me sick. I don't share your appreciation for American language." She launched into another attack, punching away with both fists. Natasha huddled up to withstand the onslaught. "American culture," Yelena continued. She grabbed Natasha and swung her around the mat. Natasha stumbled again. She regained her footing and turned around, just a moment before Yelena's foot drove into her stomach. "Or American _men_." Yelena kicked her again while she was down, sending her onto her back.

Natasha clutched her belly as she worked to get back up. But the pain went away in an instant, replaced with rage. Yelena had actually gone there.

"Why get up?" Yelena asked. "You're pretty good at lying down."

Now it was Natasha's turn to be angry. She charged forward and struck hard, putting her weight behind each of her blows. Yelena fell back, clearly unprepared for such a furious counterattack. Natasha kept pressing on though. She could feel a repressed rage bursting out from within. It was anger that she didn't even know she had. And strangely, it wasn't all directed toward Yelena either.

Natasha felt herself striking back against the vague notion of all those who had mistreated and manipulated her before. She definitely felt as if she were taking revenge against the men who had killed Alexei and burned down her house, fictional as they might be. She was Natasha Romanoff, the Black Widow. Nobody's pawn or doormat.

Seeing Yelena reel back, Natasha dived forward for a double leg takedown. The two of them hit the mat. Yelena was a good fighter though. She regained her composure and went for a reversal, flipping Natasha over. Now Natasha found herself in a guard position, on the bottom with her legs wrapped around her opponent's body. She covered up her face as Yelena punched down at her.

The right-handed punches landed heavily against her arms, but Natasha was ready for them. As the fourth punch came down, Natasha grabbed Yelena's arm and pulled it down across her chest. Their bodies were close now, too close for Yelena to keep striking. Yelena panicked and pulled her free arm back. Natasha had been looking for that opening.

She swung her right leg up and across the back of Yelena's neck. Natasha raised her left leg next, placing it over her right foot to lock it in place. She then reached up to take hold of Yelena's head with both hands. Natasha pulled down with her legs and hands as she pushed up with her hips, applying pressure in three different ways. The move was a triangle choke, a well-known method of stopping the flow of blood to someone's brain.

Yelena tapped out in submission. Natasha didn't care. She kept pulling down, even harder than she had before. Yelena slipped, and the two of them rolled onto their sides. Natasha kept squeezing, even as she heard her instructor yelling for her to stop. Yelena went limp, but she still wouldn't let go. Several pairs of arms finally yanked her off. The girls themselves had to help get her off.

"Get up!" Natasha yelled as she struggled back toward her fallen foe. Four of the other girls were barely able to hold her back. Natasha saw the instructor check Yelena's pulse, before he got up and turned to her. The man had a look of shock and astonishment on his face. Natasha could tell that she had scared even him.

"You're done here," he said.

"Class isn't over yet," Natasha said.

"It is for you today," the instructor said. It was all he could say in such a situation. The Red Room had always worked to instill a killer instinct in its trainees. The protocol was not sufficiently designed to handle the logical conclusion to that.

* * *

Natasha wiped the sweat off her brow as she carried her things down the hallway toward the private quarters that she shared with Uncle Ivan. The anger had disappeared as quickly as it had come, leaving her with a feeling of confusion and uneasiness. It had been a long day as usual, and her lack of sleep hadn't helped.

She came to a stop outside her door. There were voices inside. Natasha leaned in close to listen.

"Something's not right with her, Ivan," Dr. Sergeyev said. "Everyone else can see it."

"So she had a bad dream," Ivan said. "We've taken care of that before."

"That's not all and you know it," Sergeyev said. "You're too close to her. I'm talking about her instability. That independent streak she's developed. Even our treatments aren't lasting as long as they used to. We're losing control."

"The treatments are supposed to be your expertise," Ivan replied. "Funny, I never had such problems with Professor Pchelintsov."

"I am not Pchelintsov," Sergeyev said. "I'm better than him."

"Then prove it," Ivan said. "Concoct a dose of your new serum for me, if the old one isn't enough."

"Or what?" Sergeyev asked. "You'll make me disappear? Send me off on another 'special assignment?'"

"The boy should be grateful," Ivan said. "It was on my recommendation that he received your first dose."

"Yes, it was," Sergeyev said. "A good consolation for losing everything else. Just remember this, Ivan. I do not work for you. I work for our leaders back home. Now I know you're up to something big. You can have the serum, but I want in."

"That can be arranged," Ivan said.

"And if you double-cross me," Sergeyev said, "I will make sure you neither get the serum, nor keep her. Believe me. I have things that can open her eyes."

Natasha could tell that the conversation was over. She ran down the hall in the opposite direction as quietly as she could. The door opened. That was her signal to turn around. Natasha pretended to go through her bag as Sergeyev came out into the hallway. She gave him a casual glance before looking back down at her own things. Sergeyev walked off down the stairs.

_What's going on?_ Natasha thought. The Red Room wasn't the nicest of homes, and Natasha hardly considered most of the other people there to be her family. But she never thought that she would have to spy there.

* * *

_July 18, 2004_

"Eyes open, Barton," Agent Hill said. "Assault teams are almost ready."

"I can see," Clint replied, choosing not to say any more. The two of them were sprawled out on a forested hill, hiding among its lush vegetation. Clint had a suppressed semi-automatic sniper rifle laid out on a bipod in front of him. His eye hadn't left its scope since the two assault teams had first headed out toward the target. He didn't think that he would have to emphasize the fact to Hill. But he also wasn't going to fight with her about it in the middle of a mission.

Hill lay next to him, with binoculars and a radio in hand. She had done a lot of things in the Marines, but working in a sniper team hadn't been one of them. Still, she was the highest-ranked agent there, and was thus in command of the mission. Everything between the various components of the task force would have to pass through her.

Clint was aware that she regarded him as another tool, or an extension of her will. He wasn't there to make any decisions. He was there to feed her information, and to shoot the targets of her choice.

Half a kilometer away stood Ahmad Hussaini's lakeside retreat. The house was quite beautiful, and far more expensive than anything Clint could ever hope to own. To a billionaire like Hussaini, it probably wasn't much. Only men like him could quietly acquire such an asset without being strongly associated with it. Clint doubted if he had ever actually stayed in the house before.

There were four vehicles parked outside. One was Hussaini's black Rolls-Royce Phantom. There was also an expensive Mercedes there, which hadn't been mentioned in the intel. The car and its occupants must have arrived just before Clint and the other agents had. Finally, there were two common sedans. Those had brought in a half-dozen terrorists, including the mid-level leader whom Hussaini was dealing with.

Four of those terrorists patrolled the perimeter of the property, armed with automatic weapons. They weren't enough to fend off the SHIELD assault teams who would converge on the house from two different sides. However, it was for the best that they be taken out quietly, so that Hussaini could be apprehended in an efficient manner.

Clint swept around the outside, to reconfirm the positions and tendencies of each guard. And although Agent Hill hadn't told him to, he decided to inspect the windows of the house. There was a butler inside, as well as a couple of Hussaini's closest business associates. No one who wasn't expected to be there...

He suddenly saw a woman and a young boy enter the study with Hussaini and one of the terrorists. The woman was upset, but Hussaini resisted her pleas. He ordered her and the child to stay in the room, before leaving to proceed with his business.

"Holy crap," Clint said.

"What is it?" Hill asked.

"Hussaini's wife and kid are here. He must have brought them in for protection. _They're_ the ones who came in that other car."

"Doesn't change a thing," Hill said. "Get ready. Assault teams are in position."

She may have been right, but Clint was still bothered by the coldness with which she said it. Clint pointed his scope toward the guard walking along the western wall of the house. He would have to be the first to go. The leaves on the nearby trees were gently leaning to the left. Clint estimated the wind to be moving no more than four kilometers per hour. It was nothing that he couldn't handle.

"Ten seconds..." Hill said.

Clint breathed in before slowly exhaling. He couldn't afford the luxury of breathing while taking a shot from that far away. The continual flow of oxygen into his lungs would cause his body, and by extension his rifle, to rise and fall ever so slightly. Enough to send his bullet awry.

But holding his breath for too long wasn't an option either. Besides neglecting his obvious biological needs, going without oxygen would throw off his ability to aim straight. The best shots were taken right upon reaching the bottom of the breathing cycle. It was all a matter of timing.

"Fire," Hill said.

Clint had just emptied his lungs. He aimed toward the right of his target, compensating for the man's movement as well as the wind. Gently he pulled the trigger back, before squeezing it all the way. It was important not to jerk the rifle out of alignment while doing so. Clint saw his bullet strike the terrorist's head. One shot, one kill. He had given the man no chance to scream.

"Alpha Team, go," Hill said. "Barton, front steps, now."

He pointed there as he was told. Another guard stood in front of the main entrance. The man was oblivious to his comrade's death, as well as to his own impending demise. Clint fired again, taking him with another single shot despite having to rush through the process. He knew that he had good, steady hands. If only he had been a surgeon instead.

"Eastern ridge," Hill said. "Near those bushes."

Bravo Team was moving fast by that position, in complete trust of Clint's ability to get them through without delay. He made sure not to disappoint them.

The two teams reached their sides of the house at precisely the same time. They kicked down the doors and stormed in with their flashbangs and assault rifles. There was little Clint could do at this point, but watch and listen.

"Tango down!" Clint heard from Hill's radio. It had come from Agent Clay Quartermain, the squad leader of Bravo Team.

"Civilians secured on first floor!" reported Agent Jimmy Woo of Alpha Team. "Wait, we're taking fire. Two tangos fleeing upstairs!"

"Pursue them," Hill ordered.

Clint noticed that she wasn't even looking at him anymore. He didn't wait to be told what to do next. Swinging his rifle around, he scanned the windows of the second floor. Hussaini and the terrorist leader appeared in the third room and slammed the door shut behind them. The terrorist was nursing several bullet wounds, but he was also clutching tightly onto his own gun. Clint put him down with a quick shot through the chest.

"Get to the third room!" Hill said. "Hussaini's inside!"

"Affirmative," Agent Woo replied.

Clint had refrained from shooting Hussaini as well. The man was a valuable source of information, and was also unarmed. However, he didn't look willing to surrender without a fight. Hussaini bent over and grabbed something from his fallen ally. Clint saw him stand up with a grenade in his hand, before stumbling past the window and into an obscured part of the room.

_Oh my God_ , Clint thought. Woo's team would be storming inside that room any second. There wasn't enough time to relay the information through Hill. Clint pointed his rifle to the right of the window and fired away, sending a spread of three rounds through that section of the wall. No windage, no breath control, and no aiming. It was some of the sloppiest shooting that Clint had ever done. He saw a spray of blood fly past the window. It had worked.

Or so he thought. The grenade came flying out of Hussaini's hands a second later, bouncing somewhere near the door. "Pull back!" Clint yelled to Hill. "Pull back!" She couldn't get a word in before the explosion came. "Jimmy! No!"

"I'm okay," Agent Woo said between gasps. "My Kevlar took most of the fragments."

Clint breathed out in relief. He noticed that his hands were wrapped tightly around his rifle, quite uncharacteristic for him. It took a few moments for his nerves to come back. Clint swept his rifle over the rest of the windows, for a final check.

There was nobody left, except for Hussaini's wife and son. The two of them were clutching each other on the floor, hysterical. In another minute, one of the agents would be there to tell that woman that her husband was dead. To tell that boy that they had taken away his father.

_What was the damn point?_ Clint thought. _They kill us, we kill them._ An eye for an eye left the whole world blind, people would say. But still, that was how the world seemed to work. Clint closed his eyes and hung his head. He hoped that some good would come from what he had done that day.

_**To be continued in Chapter 5: Gift of** **Death** _


End file.
